


Dunk & Egg Collection

by ariel2me



Series: Dunk & Egg Universe [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Dunk and Egg
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-13 07:56:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 14,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13566189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: A collection of drabbles and ficlets inspired by the Dunk & Egg novellas.Chapter 15: Maekar’s Guilt





	1. A Boy Called Egg

>   _“I dreamt of Oldtown, Sam. I was young again and my brother Egg was with me, with that big knight he served. We were drinking in the old inn where they make the fearsomely strong cider.” (A Feast for Crows)_
> 
> _“It’s short for Aegon. My brother Aemon named me Egg, he’s off at the Citadel now, learning to be a maester.” (The Hedge Knight)_

“Why Egg?” asked Dunk, after downing his second tankard of ale at the inn aptly named the Quill and Tankard. Aemon had recommended the cider – fearsomely strong, and the inn’s main claim to fame, apparently – but Dunk decided to stick with ale.   

Egg’s face reddened. “I told Ser Duncan you were the one who named me Egg,” he whispered to his brother.

“Why Egg? Well, the short answer is, because I could not say  _Aegon_  properly, when I was a little boy. The second syllable always came out strangled, so Egg it became, and Egg it remains,” Aemon said, gazing fondly at his brother.

“And what is the long answer?” queried Dunk.

Aemon took a long swig of his cider, before replying. He grimaced, slightly, as the cider went down his throat. It was barely noticeable, and you would have missed it if you were not watching him as closely as Dunk was. Egg also stared, with a wary and puzzled look on his face. From his reaction, Dunk surmised that drinking strong ciders had not been one of Aemon’s customs before he came to the Citadel.

It did not surprise the knight to notice later that his squire looked very relieved, relieved and reassured, when Aemon pushed aside his empty tankard without asking the innkeeper to fill it once more to the brim with the fearsomely strong cider. Having  _one_  brother with too much fondness for drinks must be more than enough for Egg.

Only two years separated Prince Maekar’s third son from his fourth, but Aemon seemed much older than Egg. Dunk had expected to find a meek, timid and bookish boy – his only notion of what young novices at the Citadel must be like – but aside from his obvious love for books and learning, Aemon Targaryen was proving to be somewhat of a surprise to Dunk.

He was grinning, when he finally replied to Dunk’s question. “Why Egg, you asked, Ser Duncan? The long answer is, because Egg was always falling down, ser, when he was learning to walk. He’d try to stand up, and he’d fall right over, and he looked just like an egg. He was just about as tall as the length of the dragon’s egg they had put in his cradle. A plump babe, Egg was. Chubby, some might say. Adorable, I called him.”

“I was not plump. Or chubby,” protested Egg.

He made no protest about being called adorable, observed Dunk, somewhat amused.  

“I was a  _healthy_ babe, our grandfather said. Healthy, rosy and glowing,” Egg continued.

Aemon nodded, and said, to Dunk, “His cheeks were definitely rosy. Like apples, they were. I was always eager to pinch them, but I knew he would not like it, so I never did.”

Dunk stared. At Egg’s cheeks. They were not looking very rosy now. He wondered what the boy would do, if Dunk ever tried to pinch his cheeks. He’d threaten to throw Dunk into the river, most likely, as he had threatened to do to the girls in Dorne who were fond of rubbing his shaven head for luck. 

Egg glared at Dunk, as if he could tell what the knight had in mind. ‘Don’t even think of it, ser,” he muttered a warning. “My cheeks are not for pinching.”

Aemon had a sweet smile on his face, as he continued reminiscing, “I used to sit on my mother’s lap while we watched Egg in his cradle, and we’d sing to him the Song of the Seven, to soothe him to sleep. He would open his mouth very wide, like he was singing alongside us, and then my mother would have to close his mouth after he fell asleep.”  

Egg sighed. “No one ever sings for me these days, to soothe me to sleep,” he said, wistfully.

Surely the boy did not expect  _Dunk_  to sing for him, after telling Dunk that his singing was worse than an ox wallowing in mud?

 _I’ll teach you how to be a proper squire, lad, but I can’t_ –  _I won’t_  –  _sing to soothe you to sleep. Even your father would not ask that of me._

He tried to imagine Prince Maekar singing the Song of the Seven, or  _any_  song, to soothe his children to sleep. The picture Dunk conjured in his mind was more alarming than soothing. If  _he_  was the one being sung to by Prince Maekar, he would stay awake the whole night, he was sure of it. 

“Perhaps you and Ser Duncan should pay a visit to Summerhall,” Aemon said to Egg. “Father will sing for you, I’m sure.”

Try as he might, Dunk could not tell if the remark was made in jest, or if Aemon was being serious.


	2. My Father, My Son

> _[Maekar] grimaced. “My youngest son seems to have grown fond of you, ser. It is time he was a squire, but he tells me he will serve no knight but you. He is an unruly boy, as you will have noticed. Will you have him?” (The Hedge Knight)_

His father returned from Ser Duncan’s camp beneath the elm tree with his face looking like thunder. Egg asked, with some trepidation, “Did he … did Ser Duncan say he will not have me as his squire, Father?”

Egg knew he should not have been surprised.  _Why would he want me? I almost cost him his life, even if I did not mean to do it. Uncle Baelor said I should have come to him when I saw Aerion hurting those puppeteers, not go running to Ser Duncan._

And now his uncle was dead, and his father and Ser Duncan were both getting the blame for it. That was his fault too, Egg thought, even if he never meant any of it to happen. You do not have to  _intend_  harm to  _do_  harm, his uncle had said.

Prince Maekar frowned. “He did something even more insolent, your hedge knight. He dared to refuse my offer to serve as one of my household knights at Summerhall.”

Egg felt even more dejected. Even the prospect of a steady occupation and a guaranteed roof over his head – what most hedge knights would be all too eager to accept without a second thought – could not tempt Ser Duncan to take Egg as his squire.

_He must really despise me. Despite his kind words, deep down he must be blaming me for getting him into his current predicament._

“He said that he would take you as his squire,” Maekar continued, through gritted teeth, “but only if I am willing to let you go on the road with him. Only if I am willing to let my youngest son sleep on the side of roads and ditches. Presumptuous of him, I thought, but presumption seems to be this hedge knight’s foremost talent.”

Egg stared at his father, his mouth agape, his eyes as huge as saucers. He was speechless for once, too astonished to say anything. Was it really true? Ser Duncan did not hate him after all. Ser Duncan wanted them to travel the realm together, to –

Maekar raised his eyebrows. “Nothing to say? That is quite a departure for you.”

“He … he said he’ll have me? He  _really_  said that? Well and truly?” Egg asked, still not quite believing it.

“I said so, didn’t I?” Maekar brusquely replied, plainly irritated about being doubted by his son.

“Oh, Father, I am so glad!” And relieved. And grateful. Grateful to Ser Duncan, but also to his father, for going to see Ser Duncan to broach the subject. That must not have been an easy thing for Prince Maekar to do. Impulsively, Egg ran to embrace his father.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” his father asked, his own hands remaining stiffly by his sides while Egg’s hands were wrapped around his waist.    

Egg looked up, gazing at his father’s stern face. “What am I forgetting?”

“I have not said that I will allow it. To be a squire to one of my household knights is one thing, but for a son of mine and a prince of the realm to go traipsing across the Seven Kingdoms with a hedge knight of unknown provenance is quite another.”

“Oh,” Egg said, crestfallen, unable to hide his disappointment. His hands released their hold on his father. He moved a few step backwards, putting a little distance between himself and his father. “I don’t want to be a squire to Daeron. If I squire for him, I will not learn anything about how to be a true knight. You know this too, Father. You  _must_  know.”

“Squiring for your brother Daeron will not do. I see that now. But there are others you could serve.”

“Not … Aerion?” whispered Egg, fearfully. Surely his father would not be that cruel?

“No, not Aerion either. And not one of your cousins. But there are many great lords of the realm who would be more than glad to take you as their squire.”

“Ser Duncan is the only knight I will serve,” insisted Egg, stubbornly. “I told you so this morning. I have not changed my mind since then.”

Egg prepared himself for his father’s exploding wrath, for his father to call him an obstinate, mulish, pig-headed boy. Instead, Prince Maekar demanded, “Why? What do you think this hedge knight could teach you that greater men than he could not do?”

“Greater does not necessarily mean better,” Egg replied, defiantly. “A great man is not always a good one.”

His father scowled. “Are those  _his_  words you are parroting?”

“They are my own words, Father.” Egg added, as a final appeal, “Ser Duncan will teach me how to be my own man. At the very least, he could teach me how to be a better man than Aerion. Ser Duncan protects the weak, Father, like a true knight should, while Aerion only knows how to hurt them.”

Prince Maekar winced. He sat down, heavily, on one of the chairs in the royal pavilion. His face was hidden behind his hand, so Egg could not see his expression when he finally said, “Go, then, if that is truly your wish. Perhaps this hedge knight will make a good man out of you. I seem to lack the ability to make good men out of my sons.”  

 _No!_  Egg thought, with horror.  _Father, no._   _I never meant to_ –

Egg knelt beside his father’s chair, putting his hands on his father’s knees. “Forgive me, Father. I did not mean to … to – “

“To reproach me? It is a  _just_  reproach, so how could I have any grievance with it? I  _have_  failed. I have failed with Daeron and Aerion, and if your grandfather had not sent Aemon to the Citadel, I would have failed with him too.”

“It’s not your fault! It’s not your fault Daeron and Aerion are the way they are,” Egg said, heatedly.

Prince Maekar’s hand fell away from his face. He stared at his youngest son, examining his every feature, as if trying to memorize them. “One day,” he said, “you, too, will be a father, Aegon, and you will learn that a father’s duty, and thus his culpability, goes  _very_  deep, very deep indeed.”

Egg had never seen his father like this before. It terrified him, and made him feel as if the sun was never going to rise again, ever. “I won’t go,” he said, desperately. “I won’t squire for Ser Duncan. I’ll stay with you, and be  _your_  squire, Father, and we’ll –“

“You will leave with Ser Duncan tomorrow,” Prince Maekar interrupted. “That is my command,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument.   

“But –“

“There are those out there who would seek to harm me by harming you. To keep yourself safe, your identity must remain a secret. Keep your head shaven, or dye your hair, I’ll leave it for you to choose.” Removing the signet ring from his finger and handing it to his son, he added, “You must hide this on your person. Use it only when you are in dire need of it, when nothing else could protect you from danger.”

Before Egg set out to meet Ser Duncan the next morning, his father inspected him carefully. Prince Maekar pronounced the shaven head satisfactory, adding, “You may need to wear a hat on a hot day, if you do not want to be a boiled egg by midday.”

Egg giggled, then he nodded and said, solemnly, “Yes, Father.”

“The ring?”

“Stuffed inside my boot,” Egg replied.

“Remember to keep your head shaven. Hair grows back, and it grows fast. And if you ever hear talk about me, or about your grandfather –“

“I must call you Prince Maekar, and call Grandfather King Daeron.”

“You must not join the talk at all. You could risk exposing yourself if you do. Remember that.”

“I will remember, Father.”

“And if you ever hear people talking about Prince Maekar the kinslayer, you must not show any reaction.”

“It was a mishap! You never meant to –“

“Egg! What did I just tell you? You must not try to defend me, or to be outraged on my behalf. Can you do that?”

“I … I will try, Father.” He could not promise that he would be able to do it.

His father had never called him Egg before. His brother Aemon and his sisters Rhae and Daella did, and sometimes Daeron did as well, but never his father.

“On your travel with Ser Duncan, you must be  _Egg_ , not Aegon.”


	3. Daeron the Haunted

> _“It was him shaved my head. He knew my father would send men hunting us. Daeron has common hair, sort of a pale brown, nothing special, but mine is like Aerion’s and my father’s.” (The Hedge Knight)_

“Be still! I don’t want to cause a mishap with the razor.”

“Your hand is still shaking. You should not have drunk so much wine,” Egg complained. He tried to wiggle free, but Daeron caught hold of his shoulders and pushed him down to his seat again.

“It’s not the wine,” refuted Daeron. Egg rolled his eyes, poking his finger at numerous wine stains on Daeron’s tunic.

“It’s  _you_ ,” said Daeron. “You’re the one making me nervous, you with all your writhing and squirming,  as if there were ants breeding inside your breeches,” he grumbled.

In truth, his hands shook even worse when he had not taken a drink. And the dreams assailed him even more ferociously when he was sober. Egg could never understand this, thought Daeron. Their father certainly didn’t. Prince Maekar had no patience for what he considered as a deplorable lack of will and a disgraceful weakness of character.

Enter the lists, he said. Make me proud, he said. Don’t disappoint me, he commanded.

_Leave me be, Father. I’ll never make you proud, not if I live to be a hundred. You’re more likely to burst out singing and dancing than I am to shine in the tourney._

Egg pouted. “Well, don’t shave my head, then, if I’m making you so nervous that your hands shake. Why do you need to shave it anyway?”

“I  _told_  you why. You look too much like a Targaryen. If we are to hide, then your hair must go.”

The scowl Egg directed at Daeron was almost worthy of Prince Maekar himself.

“Once I am done, your head will finally _look_  like an egg,” Daeron added, trying to cajole Egg into cooperating. “Wouldn’t that be a funny tale to tell Aemon, when he returns home to visit us? Egg goes to Ashford looking like an egg. We could even make up songs for it.  _Heigh ho, heigh ho, off to Ashford he goes, the eggy Egg._ ”

Arms folded across his chest, Egg shouted, scornfully, “It’s not funny! It’s the  _least_  funny tale I’ve ever heard, and the  _worst_  song ever sung. And I’m not even  _going_  to Ashford, am I? You mean for us to hide out in this inn until the tourney is over, and to drink yourself insensible.”

Daeron sighed. He knelt, so that his eyes were level with Egg’s. “Please, brother?” he implored. “Will you not do me this  _on_ e favor? Can you really see me in the lists, striking anyone even a single blow? More likely, I would poke my own eyes and blind myself. I am not made for swords and lances, Egg.”

Egg relented, finally, sitting still long enough for Daeron to begin shaving his head. Daeron’s hands were quite steady at this point – well, as steady as they could ever be these days anyway – but it still took him a very long time to finish the task, going as slowly as he could and trying his best not to nick his brother’s flesh. Once he was done, he almost could not recognize the boy in front of him. Even Egg’s eyes seemed a different color, without the silver-gold hair to frame his face.

Daeron held up a looking glass, so Egg could see himself. “See? You don’t look like a Targaryen now.”  

Egg was the one who had the Targaryen look, but Daeron was the one with the Targaryen curse.  Aye, a curse he named it, and a curse it surely was, make no mistake, even if others might call it a gift.

Daeron the Drunken, some called him, though never in his father’s hearing. Prince Maekar might have called his eldest son worse names than that in the privacy of his solar, but he would never tolerate others insulting or dishonoring his heir.

Daeron the Sot, Prince Maekar’s heir had been called that too.

Daeron the Cursed, they should have called him. Or Daeron the Haunted.

Daeron the  _Hunted_ , that’s what he was at this moment. His father would have noticed his and Egg’s absence by now, would have sent knights to search for them, or, gods forbid, would have ridden out himself to look for his missing sons.

“You should have told him,” Egg said. “You should have just told Father you don’t want to ride in the tourney. Then we would not have to go through all this trouble.”

Poor sweet, naïve, trusting Egg, thought Daeron. The boy did not yet realize how _unbending_ their father could be, how rigid and inflexible Prince Maekar’s nature was.

Daeron did not despise his father for this, and could not even blame him for it.  _You could not help being what you are, Father, just like I could not help being what I am._

If only, he wished. If only his father would see things the same way, and would stop relentlessly insisting on Daeron being a completely different kind of man altogether. But  _that_ , Daeron knew, would be contrary to his father’s own nature, so he might as well wish for the sun to rise at midnight, for all the good the wishing would do him.

Often, he tried to imagine something so earth-shattering, so momentous in its impact that it might change his father’s essential nature, or at least might cause Prince Maekar to bend, even slightly. So far, Daeron’s imagination had always failed him in this regard.   

So off they went, Daeron and his father, running in an endless circle, never quite catching up with one another, like a dragon chasing its own tail. That dark, dismal and disheartening thought made Daeron want to reach for another flagon of wine.


	4. The Secret

> _“Could you paint something for me? I have the coin to pay.” He slipped the shield off his shoulder and turned it to show her. “I need to paint something over the chalice.” […] The girl nodded. “Give me the shield. I’ll paint it this very night and have it back to you on the morrow.” (The Hedge Knight)_

The bald boy returned close to midnight, still wearing his hooded cloak. He came alone this time, unaccompanied by the tall knight.  

The tall knight had told Tanselle his name when he asked her to paint his shield. Ser Duncan the Tall, that was his name. Ser Duncan the Tall, who had asked Tanselle to have a drink with him the previous night. A drink, or a sausage, he said. Men had asked her to have drinks with them many times before, but none had ever asked her out for  _sausages_ , of all things. The memory made her smile. Ser Duncan was new to this courting and flirting business, that much was clear.

His face had turned bright red, after he said, “You’re not too tall. You’re just right for …”

 _Puppets_ , he finally completed the sentence.  _You’re just right for puppets_ , which did not even make any sense. 

Oh, she knew full well what he really meant to say _. You’re not too tall. You’re just right for me._ His bashfulness and clumsiness endeared him to her, in truth. If he had been bold and presumptuous enough to say it to her upon a very short acquaintance, she would have thought less well of him, would have consigned him in her mind into the bin she reserved for smooth, silvery-tongued men who should be viewed with caution, if not outright suspicion. 

The bald boy opened his mouth as if he was preparing to speak, but not a single word passed through his lips for quite some time.

 “We are done for the night, I’m afraid,” Tanselle said, kindly. “The next puppet show is not till the morning.”

The boy blushed, looking down at his feet. “I know. I didn’t come for the puppet show. I came to … to –“

“Did your brother send you?”

He paled, hearing this question. “My … my brother? How do you know my brother?”

“The knight you were with. Isn’t he your brother? I thought I saw him carrying you on his shoulders earlier. Did he send you here to ask about his shield?”

Relief flooded across the boy’s face. He smiled. “Oh, you mean Ser Duncan?”

Tanselle nodded.

“He’s not my brother. He’s my … my … well, I’m his squire.”

“And what is your name, Ser Duncan’s squire?” Tanselle asked.

“I am called Egg,” the boy replied.

“I have not finished painting Ser Duncan’s shield,” she told him. “I have only just begun mixing the paint, see?”

He moved closer towards Tanselle, his curiosity overcoming his initial hesitation. “What a brilliant shade of green!” he exclaimed. “How did you make it? Which colors did you mix together?”

“Well now, I cannot reveal  _all_  my secrets, can I?” Tanselle said, with a grin.

The boy took a deep breath, as if gathering the courage to speak. Finally, he said, “Ser Duncan did not send me. I only came because I just remembered that he never asked about the price.”

“The price?”

“He never asked how much it will cost to paint his shield.”

Tanselle cited the price. The boy Egg seemed satisfied with it, nodding his head and saying, “Ser Duncan could afford that.” Then, he blushed furiously, turning even redder than Ser Duncan did earlier. “It is a fair price, I mean. A very fair price.”

Ser Duncan must be a hedge knight, deduced Tanselle. One who must be careful with his coins. And his squire was watching out for him.

“How long have you been a squire to Ser Duncan?” she asked.

“Not long,” Egg replied. “He found me on the way to Ashford, and took pity on me. If he had not taken me on as his squire, I don’t know what I would have done. I owe him such a lot, you see. But I don’t think he would be pleased to know that I came here tonight, to ask you about the price for painting the shield. He might think me impudent, or nosy, or … or –“

Tanselle nodded, to reassure the boy. “I completely understand. Have no fear, I will not tell Ser Duncan that you have been here to ask about the price.”

“Thank you,” Egg said, solemnly.

 “It will be our secret, I promise,” Tanselle said, with a smile.


	5. On Dragonback

> _“Aemon and I used to pretend that our eggs would be the ones to hatch. If they did, we could fly through the sky on dragonback, like the first Aegon and his sisters.” (The Mystery Knight)_

“You look like Prince Viserys. He used to carry his egg with him everywhere he went,” Aemon said, as Egg walked past cradling his white-and-green dragon’s egg, looking like he was cradling a babe in his arms.  

“ _King_  Viserys,” Egg corrected.  

“He wasn’t king then. He was just a boy whose egg didn’t hatch.”

“How do you know he was not still carrying his egg with him when he was king? Perhaps he brought it with him when he sat on the Iron Throne. He’d put the egg on his lap, and one day, when he was busy hearing petitions for the king’s justice, the shell began to crack, and … and …”

“And a tiny little baby dragon was born, right there on his lap, as tiny as his little finger,” Aemon continued the tale.

Egg laughed. “Nooooooooooo! Not  _that_  tiny.”

“Slightly bigger, then, the size of King Viserys’ thumb,” conceded Aemon.

“He called his dragon Viserys’ Thumb,” added Egg, relishing the tale, “and he carried the dragon with him everywhere he went, in a little box lined with black velvet cloth, with red lace around the borders.”

“What happened when the dragon grew bigger?” Aemon asked.

“The dragon never grew any bigger. He learned to fly, of course, after a while, but he never grew any bigger,” replied Egg. “He also breathed fire, like other dragons, but the flame was only hot enough to warm King Viserys’ hands on a cold night.”     

Aemon frowned. “But that means King Viserys would never be able to mount his dragon and fly through the sky.”

“He would still love his dragon, though,” Egg said, doggedly, “even if he could never fly on his dragon’s back. He waited ever so long for his egg to hatch, you see, years and years and years, longer than  _we_  have been waiting.”

“They should have given him another one,” Aemon said. “Why didn’t they give him another egg, Egg? There were plenty of dragons living back then, before the Dance, and there were many eggs too, I’m sure. His brother Aegon had a dragon, and his half-brothers and half-sisters all had one too. They should have given him another egg, to see if that one would hatch.”   

“They should have,” agreed Egg. “Poor Prince Viserys. He was the only one of his siblings who didn’t have a dragon. Do you remember the time you said that your egg will hatch and birth a boy dragon, and mine will hatch and birth a girl dragon, and then my dragon and your dragon will make lots of baby dragons together, and we’ll give the baby dragons to Rhae and Daella so that they will have dragons too, and we’d all fly through the sky on dragonback, like the first Aegon and his sisters?”

“That was a long time ago. You were only four or five at the time. I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“Of course I remember. If your egg hatches and mine doesn’t, you’ll never leave me behind, won’t you, like Prince Aegon left his little brother behind, when he flew away on Stormcloud?” asked Egg, anxiously.

“I’m sure he did not mean to do it. He was terrified. He had never flown on dragonback before. Even his dragon Stormcloud had never flown before.”

“ _You_  were terrified when Aerion threatened to make us his sisters, but you didn’t run and leave  _me_  behind.”

“It’s not quite the same thing, Egg. Prince Aegon and Prince Viserys were menaced by enemies at sea. Aerion wasn’t really going to do what he threatened to do to us. He wasn’t really going to castrate us. He knows he could never get away with  _that_ , no matter how charmingly he smiles and makes his excuses in front of Father later. He just likes seeing us afraid and shaking in our boots.”

“If  _Aerion_  has a dragon –“

The thought was horrifying. “He’ll never have one. Never!” Aemon said, vehemently. Then, to cheer his brother, he said, “You can ride on my back, if you want. I’ll be  _your_  dragon, Egg.”   

Egg mounted his brother’s back, while still cradling the dragon’s egg in his arms.

“Where do you want to go today?” asked Aemon. “Across the Narrow Sea? Or the Sunset Sea?”

“South,” Egg declared. “We’ll go south, to Dorne. I want to fly over Starfall, where Mother was born.”   


	6. Lady Dyanna

> _“And what might your mother say to that?” “My mother?” The boy wrinkled up his face. “My mother’s dead, she wouldn’t say anything.” (The Hedge Knight)_

“My mother’s Dornish, ser,” Egg confided to Dunk, on their way to Dorne.

“Your mother? I thought it’s your father’s mother who was a Dornishwoman.”

Queen Mariah of House Martell, of the sun and the spear, who had been a Dornish princess before she was queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Ser Arlan had seen her in King’s Landing, not long before he found Dunk chasing pigs in Flea Bottom and took the boy as his squire.

 _Majestic_ , the old man had described Queen Mariah, with just that one word, his eyes glistening, his voice full of awe. No other word was necessary, as far as Ser Arlan was concerned.  _She is everything a queen should be, Dunk, the stuff of every gallant knight’s dream,_ he had said.   

They were in the Reach when they heard news of the queen’s death, Dunk recalled. Ser Arlan almost came to blows with a knight of the Reach who cheered and celebrated with a flagon of Arbor red upon hearing the news, who went on to say that the realm was truly blessed now that King Daeron was no longer under the thumb of his haughty and domineering Dornish queen.  

That was many years past. Dunk had not known that Prince Maekar was also married to a Dornishwoman, like his father.

 “They were both Dornish,” Egg said. “My grandmother was a Martell, and my mother was a Dayne. I was thinking, ser, about Starfall. Starfall is –”

 “The seat of House Dayne. I know. I never learned to read or write, but Ser Arlan taught me the sigil and the seat of most of the Houses in the Seven Kingdoms.”  

“I know you know, ser. I only mean to say, we should not go near Starfall, in case –”

“In case someone recognizes you?”

Egg nodded. “The Lord of Starfall is my mother’s brother.”

Dunk did not like to ask,  _How long has it been since you lost your mother, lad?_ Earlier, Egg had sounded almost indifferent when he told Dunk that his mother was dead, but Dunk knew that could be a disguise, a mask the boy had learned to put on to conceal his true feelings. Dunk himself always pretended to be indifferent when he talked about never knowing who his father and mother were. He never wept, when the boys in Flea Bottom called his father a thief and his mother a whore, and said that Dunk was the worthless bastard his parents were glad to throw away and be rid of.

_I never shed any tears, not a single one. I might have wanted to, but I never did, not when others could see me, not when others could laugh at me for weeping._

“Dyanna,” Egg said. “That’s my mother’s name.” He glanced at Dunk, the expression on his face unreadable. “You didn’t ask, ser, but I thought you might like to know. You know my father’s name, and the names of all my brothers and sisters. You should know my mother’s name as well.”

 _Dyanna Dayne._ Lady Dyanna to Dunk. Was she called Dya by her family, or Anna? Or perhaps she was always Dyanna to even those closest to her. Egg would have addressed her as ‘ _mother’_  or ‘ _lady mother’_ , most likely, not by her name or by any contraction of her name.

“It’s … it’s a beautiful name,” Dunk said, his voice sounding strained and awkward even to his own ears. He cleared his throat, before adding, sounding more like himself this time, “Thank you for telling me, Egg. What was she like, your mother, if you don’t mind telling me?”

Dunk had assumed that Egg would talk about his mother as a  _mother_ , so his reply surprised Dunk. “She loved books,” Egg said. “Old ones especially. When she was around my age, she dreamed of going to the Citadel to forge a maester’s chain.”

“I thought the Citadel does not take women as novices?”

“It doesn’t. She once said to my father, ‘When you are king, you could change that archaic custom.’”

“Your father is a fourth son. It’s unlikely he would ever be king.”

“I know. It was a jape, I think,” Egg said, though he did not sound very certain. “They would often read aloud to one another, my mother and father,” he added.

“Read aloud?”

“Sometimes the words were not the same, not the ones written in the books, I mean. My mother liked to make up her own words. It amused her to see if my father would notice that she had changed the words, you see. Sometimes he did, but other times he didn’t. But Aemon reckoned there were also times when he noticed, but just pretended not to, ser.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Perhaps he liked the way my mother told the story better.”

Dunk was still trying, and failing, to imagine Prince Maekar reading aloud to his lady wife. It seemed a very unMaekar-like thing to do. But of course, Dunk reminded himself, it was only Prince Maekar’s public facade that he had seen, not the private man behind the mask.  _We all wear some kind of mask at one point or another,_  Ser Arlan had told Dunkonce. _Man or woman, rich or poor, highborn or lowborn, it made no matter, because no one is exempt from it._

Some people wore their mask so tightly it became their  _only_  face, the old man had also said.  _You must not become one of those people, Dunk,_ he had warned his squire.  

“It was inside her head,” Egg said, bringing Dunk back to the present. “It was inside her head, so the maesters all said they could not cut it out.  _Inside_  her head, ser, not  _in_  her head like she was imagining it. It was real enough.”

“What was inside her head?”

“The … growth, the maesters called it. My father summoned ever so many of them, when she grew ill. None of them could save her.”

 _I’m sorry, lad. More sorry than you know._ Dunk was still trying to put this thought into words when Egg spoke again. The boy must have known that some kind of commiseration was coming, and he was not eager to hear it, fearing his own reaction, perhaps. He quickly turned the table and asked, “What’s your mother’s name, ser?”   

 “I never knew,” Dunk replied. “I never knew her name. I never knew who she was, and I’m not likely to ever know. I’m sorry, Egg, but I don’t have anything I could tell you about my mother. Perhaps she died when I was born. Perhaps I killed her because I was too big a babe. Or perhaps she was a … a … woman who gave men pleasure in return for coins.”

Egg shook his head. “That’s not likely, ser. They drink moon tea, those women, so that men’s seeds would not quicken in their wombs.”

Dunk flushed. How did the boy even know these things?

“My brother Daeron said so,” Egg added, with no trace of embarrassment. “He’s been to many, you see.”

“Many what?”

“Whores, ser.”

“Don’t use that word, or I’ll give you a clout in the ear.”   

“I’ve heard  _you_  using it, ser.”

“I’m not a prince of the blood.”

“I’m Egg. I must be Egg while I’m serving as your squire, my father said. Egg, not Aegon. I think what he really meant was, I must not act princely and try to order you around, ser.”

Dunk crossed his arms. “I would like to see you try.”

“You mean you would _not_  like to see it, ser, and you would be very angry if I ever do try to order you around. That’s what my father means, when he says he would like to see me try.”

Dunk laughed, a loud guffaw coming from the belly. Then, doing his best to look stern and severe, he said, “You are too clever for your own good, lad.”


	7. Tanselle’s Fury

> " _Aerion!” the boy sh_ _outed. “He’s hurting her. The puppet girl. Hurry.” (The Hedge Knight)_

He loved her fear, Tanselle could see, relishing and savoring it as if nothing else in the world could possibly give him as much pleasure as this.

_If I show him enough fear, perhaps he will stop._

_If I show him any fear at all, perhaps he will go even further._

There was no right answer. There was never going to be any right answer, with a man like this. He would say that it was  _her_ fault, whatever she did, no matter how she reacted to him hurting her.  _You caused this. It’s your fault. You’re the one to blame, not me. You provoked me, goaded me, egged me on. You made me do it. You forced me to hurt you. It’s because you defied me. It’s because you pleaded with me. It’s because you were too afraid. It’s because you were not afraid enough. It’s because you spoke in a whisper. It’s because you raised your voice. It’s because you could not defend yourself. It’s because you dared to defend yourself. It’s because you fought back. It’s because you did not fight back. It’s because you were too weak and pathetic. It’s because you were too stubborn and unyielding._

Every answer was most likely the wrong answer, with a man like this. But she still had to try. She could not do nothing.

“It is not meant to be treasonous, Your Grace,” she tried explaining. “We do not put on the show to incite a rebellion against the king. The puppet dragon is a  _black_  dragon, to represent the Blackfyre pretender who rebelled against your royal grandsire. The puppet knight who slays the puppet dragon is meant to represent King Daeron’s most loyal and puissant knight.”

He did not care. He did not care at all about the explanation she was trying to give. That smile was still on his lips, while his hands continued twisting her arm, continued hurting her. His men were looking furious, shouting, “Treason! Dornish treason!” in an effort to drown out her words, but the prince himself merely looked amused. Cruelly and maliciously amused, almost  _exhilaratingly_  amused. He was enjoying this, enjoying the fact that  _he_  was the one inciting the crowd, inciting them against Tanselle and her family.  

“The penalty for treason is death,” he said, still smiling.

Oh, how she yearned to wipe that smile off his face.

_If I lay a hand on him, it will be my hand on the chopping block, or my head on a spike._

Not just hers, but her aunt’s and uncle’s too, most likely. Her own life she had a right to put at risk, but  _their_  lives … no, she could not do it.

“How could it be treason, Your Grace, to depict the slaying of the king’s enemy?” Tanselle said, very reasonably and quietly.

He was furious now. No more smiles. No more amused glances at the riled-up crowd, the crowd  _he_  had riled-up himself. “Burn the puppets. Burn everything!” he ordered.

“Please, Your Grace. If we have done you wrong, we will make amends. We beg for your mercy. Your royal mercy.”

His hold on her arm tightened, twisting it even harder. The pain was unbearable. She could no longer speak.

 _I will not scream. I will not scream. I will not scream_ , she repeated in her head, like a mantra.

When he broke her finger, her scream was equal parts physical pain and a different kind of pain, a pain caused by her unquenched fury, a pain that festered and lingered much longer than the pain caused by her broken bone.

 _You had no right! No right to do this to me. Even a prince of the blood has no right to treat anyone in this manner._  


	8. Rohanne’s Quandary

>   _He knew where Lady Rohanne was—abed at Coldmoat Castle, with old Ser Eustace beside her, snoring through his mustache—so he tried not to think of her. Do they ever think of me? he wondered. (The Mystery Knight)_

He snored, Rohanne’s fifth husband. Her second husband had snored as well, but not as loudly as this one.

She wondered if the knight with the large hands and large feet also snored.  _I think you must be large all over_ , she had said to him, mischievously, but he did not even blush. Perhaps he had not understood the allusion. He seemed the earnest type, almost too innocent and not worldly-wise enough for a man of twenty that he claimed to be. Had he ever been with a woman? He knew how to  _kiss_  a woman, she could swear to that.

 _I cannot take her. She is too good a horse for me,_  he had said, when he turned down her gift of the blood bay Flame. She understood  _that_  allusion all too clearly.  _If I am not good enough for you,_   _my lady,_  he had meant,  _then why should I be good enough for your horse?_

_Oh, you fool! It is not about what I want, or about what I think is good enough for Rohanne Webber the woman, Rohanne Webber the flesh-and-blood. It is about what is good enough for Coldmoat and for the Lady of Coldmoat. Aye, I had to wed someone, by the terms of my father’s will, so that Coldmoat will not pass to my father’s cousin. But it could not be just any someone. I had to wed Eustace Osgrey, because by the terms of the king’s grant, should that old man die without an heir, the rights to Chequy Water would revert back to the crown. And Coldmoat could not be protected with a dry moat._

Even a man as large as Ser Duncan was no substitute for strong moats and strong walls, when it came to defending her castle. And she had learned long ago to put her faith in steel, stone and water, not in men. Not even a man who had intrigued her, a man she was …  _fond_  of, she would leave it at that.

So far, her effort to make sure Eustace would father an heir had failed. Tonight, for example, the old man fell asleep after only a few fumbling kisses and half-hearted touches. His age was not the only issue, though it certainly played a part. There was also the fact that when the old man looked at Rohanne, he still saw the girl who used to play the kissing game with his son Addam among the blackberries, and before that, the toddler he used to dandle on his knees in the days when he had been fast friends with Rohanne’s father Lord Wyman.

Fatherly feeling was death to desire, even though Rohanne was now a woman of five-and-twenty, not the little girl in Eustace’s memory. Not that there was much desire for him on _her_  part either, truth be told, but must needs had to prevail. She was willing to do what she needed to do, to protect Coldmoat and her lands. She had even given up –     

She wondered where he was tonight, her knight with the large feet and large hands. Warm and dry under the roof of Summerhall, with his princely squire? Or cold and wet with only the sky as his roof?

_Do you keep my lock of red hair still, ser, to remember me by? Or have you thrown it in the gutter?_


	9. The Mystery Words

>   _Reading remained a mystery to Dunk though the lad had tried to teach him. (The Mystery Knight)_

“It makes no sense,” complained Dunk.

“It will, ser, once you’re used to it. It needs practice, just like sword-fighting and jousting,” said Egg, trying his best to sound both encouraging and reassuring.

“There are  _rules_  for sword-fighting and jousting.” Clear and specific rules that even Dunk could understand and remember, once Ser Arlan had explained them to him. There seemed to be no clear rules for the written words, at least none that was clear to Dunk so far. Everything seemed so chaotic, so muddled and messy, so  _higgledy-piggledy_ , as the old man liked to say. 

Pointing at two words on the page in front of him, Dunk asked, sounding mystified, “Why is  _knight_  not written the same way as  _night_ , for example? They both sound the same to me.”

Egg rubbed his shaven head. He pondered the question for a long while, before replying, “Well … if they are written the same way, ser, then how could we tell the difference? They don’t mean the same thing, those two words.”

“We could tell the difference easily enough when we hear those words being spoken,” pointed out Dunk. “When we hear people say, ‘a knight in shining armor,’ we know that they are not talking about what time of day it is.”

“Some of the letters are silent, ser. That’s what the maester at Summerhall who taught me how to read and write said. The ‘k’ in knight is supposed to be silent.”

“Why should those letters be there at all, if they are meant to be silent, if they don’t serve any purpose?” questioned Dunk. “It seems like such a waste to me. A waste of ink and paper.”

A waste, and a massive complication, for a man who was trying to learn how to read at a late age, thought Dunk.

Egg shrugged. “That’s just the way it is, ser.”

Dunk groaned.

Egg winced. “I’m not a good teacher, am I? You have taught me ever so many things, ser. I had hoped to return the favor, in this small way, but … but …” he paused, staring at his feet, looking completely dejected. “I’m sorry, ser. I truly am.”

Dunk shook his head, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “No, lad, it’s not your fault. I’m the one who should be blamed. I’m the one who’s too thick to learn.”   

_Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall. Why did I think I could learn to read, let alone write?_

 “You’re not, ser!” exclaimed Egg, raising his head. “You’re not too thick to learn. You’re not! We just have to persevere. If once you fail, try and try again, and never give up, my father said. He had a hard time learning to read as well, when he was a boy. Would you like to try again today, ser? How about starting from this passage?”

Egg looked so eager and so hopeful that Dunk did not have the heart to disappoint the boy. He began reading out loud, slowly and laboriously, “The … the king …. and his ma … me …”

“Maester, ser.”

“… and his maester … read …. the letter –“

“ _Read_ , ser, not read. It happened in the past, not the present. Like you would say  _met_ , not meet, when it took place in the past.”

“I know, lad. I’m not completely stupid. But  _met_  is not written the same way as meet, is it? See here, it says, R-E-A-D,” Dunk spelled the word out loud, pointing his finger at each letter on the page. “You’ve shown me how the word is written before, in this same book. I remember. I remember it clearly,” he insisted.

“You’re right, ser. But in the passage I showed you before, the action is taking place in the present. In this one, it took place in the past. They’re not really the same word, read and  _read_ , even though they look the same written down on the page.”

“So R-E-A-D is both read and  _read_?”

Egg nodded.

“They should have written those two words differently. Read and  _read_  don’t sound the same at all.”

 “They should, ser,” agreed Egg, “but they don’t.”

“They don’t,” echoed Dunk. He sighed, a long and drawn-out sigh.    

Knight and night. Two words with the same sound, and yet they were written differently.

Read and  _read_. Two words with different sounds, and yet they were written the same way.

Although somehow, meet and  _met_  managed to be written differently. Why that was not possible for read and  _read_  was a complete mystery to Dunk.

His head was spinning. Dunk closed his eyes and said, “Teach me how to write my own name, Egg. I should be able to do that much, at least. We’ll return to reading later.”


	10. The Accuser

> _“Ser, my father is going to join the seven accusers,” Egg broke in. “I begged him not to, but he won’t listen. He says it is the only way to redeem Aerion’s honor, and Daeron’s.” (The Hedge Knight)_

“You can’t!” Egg wailed, as he had not wailed for years, not since he was a very little boy. “Father, no.  _Please._ You can’t! You can’t be one of Ser Duncan’s accusers.”

His father’s mace would cut down Ser Duncan with one blow, Egg was certain of it. Against Aerion, Ser Duncan might have a fighting chance, but not against Egg’s father, not against the man who was already killing men in battlefields back when Ser Duncan was still a little boy even younger than Egg.

How could his father even consider this? Egg had always known how strict and severe his father could be, but in his eyes, his father never acted out of malice and was very rarely wrong. But his father was wrong, this time, as wrong as anyone could ever be.  _Wrong, wrong, wrong. Father, why? Father, how could you? How could you not see how wrong this is?_  

“Father, you can’t!” Egg repeated. “It would be –“

Maekar interrupted, “Can’t I? How will you stop me, pray tell? With a sword? With your bare hands? A few days in the company of this hedge knight, and you think you are ready to defeat your own father?”

Egg flushed. “I mean, you  _mustn’t_. You must not do this to Ser Duncan.”

“Because he might be defeated, and thus proven to be guilty?”

“Because it’s wrong!” Egg cried out. “I’ve  _told_  you and I’ve  _told_  you, but you won’t listen. Aerion was hurting the puppet girl. Ser Duncan was only trying to protect her. And Daeron lied! Ser Duncan did not steal me away. He didn’t even want to take me as his squire at first. I forced my service on him. If you need someone to blame, then blame  _me_ , Father, not Ser Duncan.”

Maekar scoffed. “You’re a boy half his age. How could you  _force_  your service on a grown man?”

“I wore him down. I wore him down with my stubbornness and my willfulness. You  _know_  I’m capable of it, Father. You’ve scolded me for it many times before.”

“Your stubbornness and your willfulness have never worked on  _me_  before, and it will not work this time either. You will not wear me down with your persistence, Aegon. Your brothers’ honor must be redeemed, and that is all there is to it. The matter is closed. We will not speak of it again.”

Egg persevered, despite his father’s warning. “Let my brothers redeem their honor with their own hands. Why must you be one of Ser Duncan’s accusers?”

“I am their father. It is my duty.”

 _You’re my father too. What about your duty to me? What about me?_ Egg thought, but did not dare to say, in case it inflamed his father’s wrath even more. He went down on both knees, pleading, “Please, Father. I’ll … I’ll do anything you tell me to do. Anything at all. I’ll never defy you again, I promise. I’ll go back to Summerhall this very day. I’ll squire for anyone you want me to squire for, even Aerion, if that is your wish. Only … only … you must not be one of the accusers against Ser Duncan. Please, I’m begging you. Father,  _please_.”

“Rise!” ordered Prince Maekar, his face flushed, his jaw working furiously beneath his beard. “I will not have you on your knees, begging and pleading, for the sake of some stranger. Rise, I say!”

“I will not!” Egg countered. “I will not rise until you have promised not to join the accusers against Ser Duncan. Will you promise, Father?” insisted Egg.

“I will do no such thing,” his father replied, furiously. “I will not be blackmailed by an obstinate, insolent boy.”

 “Then I will find the _strongest_  knights in the realm to be Ser Duncan’s defenders,” Egg yelled, just as furiously. “You will not find it so easy to defeat him after all, I promise you. Ser Duncan’s innocence will be  _proven_ , proven to you, Father, and proven for the entire realm to see. And you will see how wrong you have been, how  _terribly_  wrong, how  _disappointingly_  wrong. I never thought you’d be capable of such a wrong, Father.”

 _I should not have said that out loud, about finding the strongest knights in the realm to defend Ser Duncan,_  Egg thought, regretting his own rashness after the words had left his mouth. What if his father decided to keep him under lock and key in Ashford Castle, or to send him back to Summerhall kicking and screaming this very moment? He could be of no use to Ser Duncan then. He should have guarded his tongue better, and kept his anger hidden from his father. Oh, what a foolish, reckless boy he had been.

_Forgive me, ser. I never meant to … I never meant … I never meant any of it. I won’t let you die, ser. I won’t! I won’t! I’ll find a way, somehow._

Prince Maekar stared at his youngest son for a very long time. For a moment, Egg could have sworn that he saw a trace of doubt and uncertainty flickering behind his father’s hooded eyes, but it was gone before he could be certain that he had really seen it at all.

“Rise, Aegon,” Maekar said. He sounded weary and drained, rather than furious, this time. He held out a hand towards his son.

Egg remained obstinately on his knees, refusing to take his father’s hand.

Eyebrows raised, Maekar asked, “Do you mean to stay on your knees until the trial of seven is completed? How do you plan to prove me wrong from that position, pray tell? With the force of your sullen disapproval? Will that bring knights flocking to Ser Duncan’s side?”

Egg took his father’s hand, finally, and rose to his feet. Before he could say a single word, his father had let go of his grasp, and left without giving Egg another glance.


	11. The Remorseful Boy

>   _Dunk reached for his hand. “Ser Lyonel, I cannot thank you enough for coming, nor Ser Steffon for bringing you.” “Ser Steffon?” Ser Lyonel gave him a puzzled look. “It was your squire who came to me. The boy, Aegon.” (The Hedge Knight)_
> 
> _The third of the white knights was down, and the Laughing Storm had joined Prince Baelor against Prince Maekar. […] Maekar was taking three blows for every one he landed, and Dunk could see that it would be over soon. I must make an end to it before more of us are killed. (The Hedge Knight)_

“Are you certain you want me to fight on Ser Duncan’s side?” Lyonel Baratheon questioned Egg. “I would be fighting against your own father. I am by way of being a redoubtable warrior myself, though not yet as famous as the great Prince Maekar, of course. One of my blows might land on your father’s stone-cold stubborn head. Have you thought of that?”

“My father is more than able to look after himself, ser. He was killing men in battle long before you were laughing at your first tourney opponent,” replied Egg, with some asperity.

A variety of expressions flitted across the Laughing Storm’s face, one after another. Egg wondered if he was about to take offence, but then he laughed, an amused laughter, very different from the booming laughter he employed to unsettle his tourney opponents.

“Prickly, are you, about your father’s prowess in battle being questioned?  _No man shall speak ill of my father, or he will have to answer to me._  What a touching display of filial devotion. And yet … you and your father are on opposite sides regarding this trial of seven.”

“My father is wrong, ser, on this matter.”

“And you want to prove him wrong, of course. Oh, I understand completely. Sons have been trying to prove their fathers wrong since the beginning of time. Not me, though. My father died when I was a mere babe still suckling on my wet nurse’s teats. Proving my grandfatherwrong is what brings me great joy, and what gives my life meaning and purpose," Ser Lyonel said, in a wry tone.

Egg did not quite know how to react to this.

Lyonel Baratheon continued, "My grandfatherwould tell me to refuse you with a resolute ‘no,’ which makes me more inclined to do the opposite. Is it the same with you and your father?”

Egg recoiled at the comparison. “It’s not about proving my father wrong, ser. I love my father. And  _because_  I love my father, I do not want him to be the cause of a great injustice that he will regret for the rest of his life. And he _will_  be the cause of that great injustice, if Ser Duncan dies. And … well, I do not want Ser Duncan to die. He’s … he’s –”

“You have grown fond of this hedge knight, I suppose?”

Egg did not deny it.

“What about your brothers? Are you as convinced of their prowess in combat as you are of your father’s?”

“My brother Daeron says he will lie down in the field, to save himself from being hit. As for Aerion … he means to kill Ser Duncan, ser, come hell or high water. It is not right, that Ser Duncan should die because he protected the innocent, as every true knight must.”

“You will not be shedding any tears, then, if my blows land on Prince Aerion’s head?”

“Not if it is done to protect Ser Duncan’s life, ser,” said Egg, resolutely.

As it turned out, none of Lyonel Baratheon’s blows landed on Prince Aerion’s head. Ser Duncan took care of that all on his own. He was felled by a blow from Aerion’s morningstar, at the start, but even as Egg was still desperately praying for him to get up, he had found the strength to fight back, to rain his own blows on Aerion.

 _Almost done,_  Egg thought, with relief. Aerion would yield, surely, very soon. Ser Duncan was getting the better of him, and the  _fear_  in Aerion’s eyes was something Egg never thought he would  _ever_ ,  _ever_  see. Aerion, who had loved nothing better than terrifying others, was now reduced to a quivering mess himself. Daeron had already yielded, and if both Daeron and Aerion yielded and withdrew their accusations, then the battle would be over, and Ser Duncan would be judged not guilty.

But then, from the corner of his eyes, Egg spied his father trying to make his way to Aerion’s side. His father must mean to rain his own blows on Ser Duncan, to assist Aerion. Egg’s heart sank.As big and as strong as Ser Duncan was, surely even  _he_  could not defeat both Prince Maekar and Prince Aerion at the same time. Aerion’s morningstar was lying useless on the field, but Maekar’s mace was looming threateningly in his hand.

 _Father, no!_  Egg started to scream, but the words died somewhere between his throat and his mouth. “Yield, you fool!” he shouted instead, to Aerion, but his words were drowned out by the incessant noise of the crowd. “Ser, ser! My father! Look out for my father,” he shouted, to Ser Duncan, also to no avail. Ser Duncan’s eyes were fixed on Aerion, and  _only_  Aerion, blind to the threat of Aerion’s father coming his way.  

Uncle Baelor had  _seen_ , though. Uncle Baelor planted himself squarely in Father’s way, preventing Father from getting closer to where Ser Duncan and Aerion were still fighting. Egg could have cried with relief. They would not harm each other, his father and his uncle. Uncle Baelor would hold off Father long enough for Ser Duncan to force Aerion to yield, and then the battle would be over. Father would be angry with Uncle Baelor for a while, certainly, but eventually they would reconcile and come together once more. They always did, in the past, no matter what was the cause of their quarrel.      

Egg’s eyes were fixed on Ser Duncan and Aerion, anticipating the end, so he missed Ser Lyonel joining the battle between his father and his uncle. When he looked again, his father was fending off blows from both Ser Lyonel and Uncle Baelor, lashing out his mace furiously, forcefully, and desperately, but landing manifestly fewer blows than the barrage he was taking.   

Egg did not truly comprehend what he was seeing, at first.    

_Oh, but surely …_

_It can’t be!_

_One of my blows might land on your father’s stone-cold stubborn head. Have you thought of that?_

It couldn’t be true, thought Egg. His father could not truly be in danger of losing his life. His prowess in battle was second only to Uncle Baelor in the whole of the realm. The Laughing Storm was a  _tourney_  knight, not a man who had been tested and retested in multiple battles like Prince Maekar.

_I went to him. I was the one. The one who pleaded with Ser Lyonel to be one of Ser Duncan’s defenders._

_I had to! If I had not done so, Ser Duncan could be dead by now. Ser Lyonel held off the three Kingsguards from striking Ser Duncan._

But what if his father were to die from a blow by Lyonel Baratheon’s hand? It would mean … it would mean that he … that Egg himself …

Egg could not finish the thought. He  _dared_  not. Heartsick with despair, he wanted to close his eyes as tightly as possible, and to sink down to his knees so the ground could swallow him whole. Or, better still, to run away from the field, as far away as possible. But he  _forced_ himself to stay on his feet, to keep his eyes wide open, to look, to watch, to  _see_. He must not look away. His father would be ashamed of him if he looked away, if he refused to see the result of his –    

And then … it  _ended_. It actually ended. “I withdraw my accusation,” Aerion said,  _finally_ said, after Ser Duncan had dragged him across the field to where Lord Ashford was sitting. His father was still standing, Egg saw, and so was Uncle Baelor. Ser Duncan, on the other hand, looked ready to drop. Egg hesitated, for a moment or two, before his feet moved towards Ser Duncan’s direction. The boy could not have answered, had you asked him, whether he went where he went because he remembered his duty as Ser Duncan’s squire, or because he feared that the sight of him was the last thing his father would wish to see at that moment.


	12. A Mule Called Maester

>   _Chestnut had died on the long dry ride to Vaith, that part was true. He and Egg rode double until Egg’s brother gave them Maester. (The Sworn Sword)_

The mule was waiting for them by the side of the road, cropping on grass. He brayed loudly as Egg approached, his eyes watching the boy in the floppy, wide-brimmed straw hat with a suspicious glare.

“I did not have enough gold to buy a horse,” Aemon said, sheepishly. “My half-yearly provision from my father is not due to arrive for a fortnight. If you and Egg had arrived in Oldtown slightly later, Ser Duncan, I could have bought a pony for Egg to ride.”

“I have always wanted to ride a mule,” Egg declared, eagerly. “ _’You are as stubborn as a mule,’_  Father liked to say. I want to see how stubborn a mule _really_  is.”   

Shuffling his feet and looking down at the ground, Dunk said, gravely, “I am most grateful for your kindness, Prince Aemon. I hope you will be able to forgive me, but I cannot accept the mule. Your father would not have wanted you to spend the provision he sent to you in this manner.”

Egg flashed Dunk a pleading, imploring look. “Ser, we cannot ride double on Thunder for much longer. Thunder is a warhorse. He is only meant to be ridden in tourney and battle, not to carry two riders across the realm. You would not wish to damage Thunder, would you? You love him, ser, and he is very precious to you.”

“The gold is already spent, Ser Duncan,” Aemon said. “The owner of the mule would not consent to return my money and retrieve his animal, in any case. And what would I do with a mule at the Citadel?”

“I will repay the gold to you as soon as possible,” Dunk promised, fervently.

“My father will repay the gold, ser,” said Egg. “The mule is meant for  _his_  son to ride, after all.”

_But you are my squire, lad, and it is a knight’s duty to provide for his squire, Ser Arlan always said._

Except  _this_  squire was a prince of the blood. Prince Maekar had offered a certain amount of gold to Dunk before he and Egg departed Ashford Meadows, saying, “You have promised to serve as my household knight at Summerhall after a year or two of taking Egg on the road. Think of this as an advance on your future wages.”

Dunk had refused the gold outright. “If your son is to learn anything from being a squire to a hedge knight, Your Grace, then he must learn to live only on what the knight he serves is able to earn, not on the gold slipped on the side by his princely father.”

 _‘As stubborn as a mule,’_  Prince Maekar had called Dunk. He wondered now if his refusal had been too rash and reckless.  

 _No, Ser Arlan would have done the same. The old man would not have taken Prince Maekar’s gold either,_  thought Dunk.

“Does he have a name?” asked Egg, pointing at the mule.

Aemon replied, “The owner never said. He has dozens and dozens of mules. I doubt he ever bothered naming any of them.”

“What should we name him, ser?” Egg asked, turning to Dunk.

“Are you certain you want to name him, Egg? If he dies …”

 _Like my old stot Chestnut_ , added Dunk, silently. Egg had ridden Chestnut while Dunk rode Thunder on their way to Dorne, and the boy had wept copiously when Chestnut perished, though he had denied it strenuously afterwards, insisting that the redness of his eyes was caused by the Dornish sand, not by his tears.

Dunk continued, “The grief is harder to bear if you lose a horse you have named. It is like losing an old friend, Ser Arlan used to say.”

Ser Arlan had never heeded his own advice. He had named all the horses he ever owned, spending an inordinately long time to choose just the right name for each one.

“Well, a mule is not a horse,” Egg said, with a wicked smile.

“Everyone  _deserves_  a name,” Egg added, in a more serious and solemn tone. “Maester,” he declared, after a while. “I’ll name the mule Maester, in honor of the brother who gave him to me.”

Aemon laughed. “I’m not a maester yet, Egg. And are you saying that I am as stubborn as a mule? Father never said that about me, only about you.”

“He doesn’t look it, ser, but Aemon could be the most stubborn of all my brothers,” Egg told Dunk. “Don’t be fooled by his gentle countenance,” he added, playfully.

“Oh, really? Should I ask Ser Duncan how stone-cold stubborn you have been during your travel with him?” Aemon teased back.

Dunk watched the brotherly banter with fondness, and, if he was honest, with a little sliver of envy embedded deep in his heart.

_If I had a brother, would we be as close as Egg and Prince Aemon seem to be?_


	13. A Boy And A Mule In Matching Straw Hats

>   _Egg’s old straw hat, wide-brimmed and floppy, kept the rain off the mule’s head. The boy had cut holes for Maester’s ears. Egg’s new straw hat was on his own head. Except for the ear holes, the two hats looked much the same to Dunk. (The Mystery Knight)_

The peddler selling the sailcloth tent in Stoney Sept was also selling an assortment of other goods required by hedge knights during their life of near-constant traveling, such as belts, boots and breeches for wearing and horsehair brushes and strong lye soaps for bathing,  

While Dunk was busy negotiating a reduction in price for the tent, Egg’s attention was fixed elsewhere.

“Look, ser!” Egg suddenly exclaimed. “They look just like my hat.”

The stacked straw hats on the peddler’s stall did indeed resemble the hat on Egg’s head. It was a surprising item to see here, thought Dunk. How many hedge knights and their squires would have a need for wide-brimmed straw hats as part of their provisions after all? It was not like the realm was overrun with knights and squires with shaven heads.   

“They make straw hats everywhere, I’m sure, not just in Oldtown,” Dunk replied nonetheless.  

The straw hat had been the suggestion of Prince Aemon. Egg had complained to his brother that he was sick and tired of hearing mocking remarks and unfunny japes about his shaven head, sick and tired of answering questions about lice and rootworms and sick and tired of seeing pitying looks for the poor, pitiful, must-be-ill-and-perhaps-dying boy directed at him.

And Egg complained loudest and longest of all about the girls in the Greenblood who had made a game of rubbing his shaven head for luck, leading Aemon to tease him with, “Why, did you secretly like it, Egg? Was that why you blushed so red?”

“Who said I blushed? I didn’t blush,” Egg denied, his face already blushing.   

 _Ah, lad, your face will always betray you_ , thought Dunk.  

A wide-brimmed hat would cover Egg’s baldness and protect his head from the sun and the rain, Aemon had advised. Dunk had procured such a hat in Oldtown. Egg had resisted wearing the straw hat at first, insisting, “I will look ridiculous! Ridiculous and foolish. I’ve never seen a proper squire wearing a floppy hat. Have you, ser?”

 “Better a floppy hat than a boiled head,” Dunk had said, when the glare of the hot sun finally induced Egg to wear his hat. The boy had taken to it like fish to water, and now he rarely took the hat off when they were outdoors.

 The peddler, noticing Egg’s interest in the straw hats, said to Dunk, “I will give you the hat for free, if you buy the tent.”

“I already have a hat. I don’t need another one,” said Egg, worried that the peddler was trying to cheat Dunk in some way.

“Your hat is already fraying, little boy. It will fall to pieces soon.”

Outraged, Egg replied, “My hat is fine! Just fine. And I am  _not_ a little boy. I am a squire.”

“Are you now? Well, my mistake,  _squire_. I thought you were this man’s little brother.”

Egg opened his mouth to speak, but Dunk interrupted to say, “One silver stag and not a penny more for the tent. That is all I am willing to pay.”

The peddler hesitated, before finally relenting. He gave Dunk one straw hat for free, “because I am a kind and considerate man,” he said, with a wink, but Dunk suspected that it was really because the hats were not selling anyway.    

“What will you do with your old hat? Throw it away?” Dunk asked, after he had given the new hat to Egg.  

Egg looked at Dunk with disbelief. “Do you think me such a fool and a waster, ser? It can still be used.” He paused, before continuing, in a softer tone of voice, “And I could never throw it away. You gave it to me, ser, my old hat. Just like this new one.”

Dunk was touched, although he tried his best not to show it.

“Pass me your knife, ser.”

Egg cut two holes in the old hat.

Dunk was shocked and outraged. “What are you doing?! You’re destroying it.” Whatever happened to appreciating the old hat because Dunk had given it to him? Were the boy’s words merely wind?  

“No, I’m not destroying it, ser. I’m modifying it,” Egg replied, calmly. He perched the modified hat on Maester’s head, not without some initial resistance from the braying mule. The holes allowed the mule’s ears to jut out, and Maester slowly calmed down and began to act as if the hat had always been a part of him.

“See! The hat will protect him from the sun and the rain, just like  _my_ hat,” said Egg.

Dunk laughed. “You and Maester look like two peas in a pod. But if your father were to see this, what would he say? He would not be pleased, I’d wager.”

 _As stubborn as a mule_ , Prince Maekar had said about his youngest son.  

Egg replied, “My father would raise his eyebrows ever so slightly, and then he would say something like,  _‘I see that you have met your true match, Aegon.’_ ”

Dunk chortled.

“My father could be funny too, ser, despite his appearance,” Egg continued. “But not many people know how to appreciate his humor.”

“Perhaps he did not mean to be funny, only sharp and biting,” said Dunk.

“And the humor is accidental?” questioned Egg. The boy pondered his question, and his father, for a long while.   


	14. A True Knight

>   _I could find another hedge knight in need of a squire to tend his animals and clean his mail, he thought, or might be I could go to some city, to Lannisport or King’s Landing, and join the City Watch. Or else … (The Hedge Knight)_
> 
> _Dunk looked at [Egg] thoughtfully. He knew what it was like to want something so badly that you would tell a monstrous lie just to get near it. (The Hedge Knight)_
> 
> _“He always said he meant for me to be a knight, as he was. When he was dying he called for his longsword and bade me kneel. He touched me once on my right shoulder and once on my left, and said some words, and when I got up he said I was a knight.” (The Hedge Knight)_
> 
> _“Knight me.” Raymun put a hand on Dunk’s shoulder and turned him. “I will take my cousin’s place. Ser Duncan, knight me.” He went to one knee. Frowning, Dunk moved a hand to the hilt of his longsword, then hesitated. “Raymun, I … I should not.” “You must. Without me, you are only five.” “The lad has the truth of it,” said Ser Lyonel Baratheon. “Do it, Ser Duncan. Any knight can make a knight.” “Do you doubt my courage?” Raymun asked. “No,” said Dunk. “Not that, but …” Still he hesitated. (The Hedge Knight)_
> 
> _“And this same Ser Arlan knighted you?” Dunk shuffled his feet. One of his boots was half-unlaced, he saw. “No one else was like to do it.” (The Sworn Sword)_

_He meant to_ , Dunk insisted in his head.  _He meant to knight me, Ser Arlan always said so._

 _You have a strong arm and a good heart, lad. You’ll make a good knight someday, a true knight who protects the weak and defends the innocent,_ Ser Arlan had said, on many occasions.

 _He didn’t, though_ , Dunk reminded himself.  _He didn’t knight me, as he always said he would._   _He died! Died, died, died, before he could do it, before he could fulfill his promise._

 _He would have done so if he could!_ Dunk defended Ser Arlan against his own accusing thought, fleeting and momentary as it was. The old man would never have broken his promise intentionally. Never!

The chill had weakened Ser Arlan so swiftly that near the end, he barely had the strength to lift his own head. Even if he had sense enough remaining to call for his longsword, Ser Arlan would not have had the strength to hold up his sword and then to place the sword on both of Dunk’s shoulders, to complete the rituals of knighting.

 _Rituals._ _Those are merely rituals. He had the intention, and if he had said the words making me a knight, it would still have counted, even if he did not have the strength to hold up his sword,_ Dunk tried to convince himself.

Except … Ser Arlan had not had the strength to say the words either. Dunk had heard the old man mumbling weakly about figures from his past a few times, calling for his dead nephew Roger at one point and begging for his mother at another, but the word  _knight_  or _knighting_ had never passed his lips at all during his final illness. Towards the very end, he did not even recognized Dunk, mistaking his squire for a knight he called Ser Denys the Strong, a name Dunk had never heard the old man mentioned even once before.

Dunk had tried his best to soothe and comfort the dying man, and the thought of knighting was the furthest thing on his own mind at the time. The thought only came to the fore after he had closed Ser Arlan’s lifeless eyes, after he had wept many tears for the only man in the world who had treated him as if he was worth something. Then, and only then, did he begin to wonder what would happen to himself, now that the knight he had served since he was a boy of five or six was gone.  

 _I could be a sellsword_ , he thought. With his size and his strength, and the skill in arms Ser Arlan had taught him, surely he would be able to find some lord or merchant to hire him. A sellsword might even live an easier and more prosperous life than a hedge knight, if he found the right master.  _I could –_

Ser Arlan’s words were swimming in Dunk’s head.  _I took the vow, lad. Took the vow and said the words promising to protect and defend the weak and the innocent, and I must keep to that vow. That is the duty, honor and pride of every knight, even a hedge knight. Otherwise, I would be no better than a sellsword, and that is not the life I wish for myself._

And not the life Ser Arlan had wished for Dunk either. The old man had been very clear about that, as clear as he was about his intention to knight Dunk someday.

_You taught me how to be a knight, ser, a true knight. I will not disappoint you. I will be a true knight, in all my intentions and my deeds, even if … even if …_

But would it not be a lie, a monstrous lie, to claim that he was truly knighted by Ser Arlan? And what if … what if he had to knight his own squire later? Any knight could make a knight, but if Dunk was not truly a knight, then the man he supposedly knighted would not truly be a knight either.

Dunk felt as if he was being torn in half.

 _I will have to be sure not to knight anyone,_  he told himself later. It was not like he was in a position to afford a squire in the first place. The question might never even arise.

 _But if it ever does_ , he resolved,  _I must not compound my lie with another lie, by making a false knight of another man._   


	15. Maekar's Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prequel to  **[My Father, My Son](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13566189/chapters/31203963)**

> _Prince Maekar gave [Dunk] an incredulous look. “Did the trial addle your wits, man? Aegon is a prince of the realm. The blood of the dragon. Princes are not made for sleeping in ditches and eating hard salt beef.” He saw Dunk hesitate. “What is it you’re afraid to tell me? Say what you will, ser.” “Daeron never slept in a ditch, I’ll wager,” Dunk said, very quietly, “and all the beef that Aerion ever ate was thick and rare and bloody, like as not.” (The Hedge Knight)_

Maekar seethed and fumed all the way back to the royal pavilion. Curse the man! Curse that presumptuous hedge knight and his insinuations about Maekar’s two eldest sons.  _Your spoilt and pampered sons, who never wanted for anything, who never had to struggle for anything in their lives, how well have they turned out, Your Grace?_  That was the essence of Ser Duncan’s jibe about Daeron never sleeping in a ditch, and Aerion eating only thick, rare and bloody beef.

Who was  _he_ to make such an insinuation? What did that blasted hedge knight truly know about Maekar’s sons, to say such a thing?

_He knew he almost died because three of your four sons lied. Even your Aegon, whose lie did not come out of malice, played some part in causing Ser Duncan’s travails._

_Will you defend that hedge knight even now, brother, over your own kin, over your own flesh and blood?_  

_No one else is like to do it. Certainly not you, Maekar. You, who fought on the wrong side in the trial of seven. You, who have forgotten your vows._

_My vows? Which vows? Did you expect me to wield my mace against my own sons? Have you taken leave of your senses?!_

_You should not have wielded your mace at all. As a father, your words and your deeds should have tempered your children’s recklessness. Instead, you aided and abetted them, exacerbating the consequences of their foolhardy notions._

The trouble with arguing with the dead was, you could not hope to win, ever. It was a completely futile exercise. The dead had an insurmountable advantage over the living, for they could no longer be proven wrong.

_Do you hope to prove me wrong even now, Maekar? Even after –_

_It was a mishap, I swear it! I swear it on my life. I swear it on our mother’s memory. I never meant to swing my mace as hard as I did. I never intended to crush your skull. But it was two against one, you and Lyonel Baratheon against me, and I was taking three blows for each one I landed._

The blow that slew his brother was a mishap, certainly, but the decision to fight in the trial itself … _that_  had not been a mishap, far from it. It was a conscious decision he had made, not in the heat of battle but with due deliberation, because he was absolutely convinced that his sons’ honor must be redeemed, at any cost. He knew his brother, and knowing his brother, Maekar was almost certain that Baelor would have said that  _this_  was where his guilt truly rested, not in the blow that crushed Baelor’s skull, but in the decision that placed him in the position to crush his brother’s skull in the first place.

_I did not know! How could I have known that you would choose to fight on the side of the hedge knight? How could I have known that you would decide to be one of his champions? I did not know!_

His brother’s face rose up before him, not the dead man of nine-and-thirty Baelor was but the young man of ten-and-seven he had been, the newly knighted youth bending down to show his youngest brother his newly forged sword. “A true knight protects the weak and the innocent, Maekar, or he is no knight at all. And a true king protects his people, or he is no king at all,” Baelor had said to that boy, echoing their father’s refrain and reminder.

_You knew! You knew what a knight must do to be counted a true one. You knew what must be done to be true to our vows as knights of the realm. Did you forget, Maekar? Or did you choose to forget?_

To his fury, and even more considerable dismay, the accusing voice sounded more like his own than Baelor’s. 


End file.
